All of This Will Come to Pass
by Kira
Summary: 'There's no second wind, no last-minute plan.' Olivia finds herself at the end of the world. Future-fic.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **All of This Will Come to Pass  
**Rating:** PG-13**  
****Pairing: **Olivia/Peter**  
****Setting/Spoilers: **General season 3 spoilers**  
****Warnings: **None, really.  
**Summary:** _There's no second wind, no last-minute plan._ Olivia finds herself at the end of the world. Future-fic.  
**Notes:** Thanks to Bryn for the beta. This just flowed right out of me one afternoon; a moment of serendipity that I love.

* * *

_Now I'm lost in a sea of sunken dreams  
while the sound of drunken screams echos in the night  
but I know all of this will come to pass  
and I'll be with you in last forever by your side_

- 'Dying Day', Brandi Carlile

She's faced herself again and won — this time, the knots are stronger, the hold total. There's no second wind, no last-minute plan.

There's fire and a charge in the air that frightens her more than she knows.

Agents run through the calamity, searching for survivors, trying to get those able to away from the hanger, dragging scientists along with the help of military personnel. Somewhere in the fray she spots Broyles, his arm around Nina Sharp's shoulders, her face covered in ash and the angry welts of burns; Olivia runs past them, to where the massive doors once stood, now a gaping hole of twisted metal.

The hanger is nothing like she remembers.

The desks have been blown back to the walls, their computers and equipment hanging in the air, swirling in the electrical current. There is debris all around, knocked out walls, and she steps over a bulletin board covered in charred blueprints on her way through the mess, gun held out, ready.

She knows her alternate wasn't the only one to cross over, and would laugh at the irony of it all if she weren't shaking from fear and adrenaline. Around her, objects glimmer in that second sight of hers, bright flashes of amber and white and that blue glow she remembers learning about during her time as the Olivia of the other side. She continues on, sweat dripping down her brow, the heat almost unbearable.

A whimper sounds somewhere to her right.

Olivia takes off, leaping with a strength she didn't know she still had after three days awake. Desks are in pieces, here, and she searches through the rubble for the source of the sound. And then — a foot, sticking out from under a desktop blown free of its legs.

She crouches down and throws the desktop off with a grunt to find herself staring into the eyes of Walter. He is covered in ash, in burns, but his eyes are clear, shimmering not from the vibrations of another universe, but tears. His hands are twisted up in each other, but it's his left leg that catches her attention — a tear in the pants, the white of a broken bone. He's holding it together remarkably well, though she's sure she doesn't look much better.

"Walter," she huffs. The air is thin, and her lungs burn as she speaks. "Where's Peter?"

"Peter?" asks the scientist. "Why — I have no idea. They — they took him. Oh, Olivia," — he leans up and grasps her arm with both his hands — "You _must_ find him!" He falls into coughs and falls back, his eyes clouding as he tries to regain his breath.

"I will," she says just before grabbing her radio to call for help, "I promise, Walter."

The machine stands at the far end of the hanger, and she feels her breathing get easier as she sees there's no body in the center, no Peter dangling from ancient supports, no flames shooting from his eyes.

But there _is_ a man at the end of the room. Immaculate despite the chaos erupting around them, grey hair kept and coifed like the suit he wears. Nausea grows in her stomach at the sight of him, the anger she's felt since their first meeting bubbling up to produce a shout. She charges, finding clear purchase where she can, and points her gun at his forehead.

"Where is he?" she growls. The Secretary grins, his face splitting in a way Walter's never will.

"It won't be long, now," he tells her. "I believe the machine will do most of the heavy lifting."

"He's your _son_. You have to know this will kill him."

The Secretary shakes his head. "My son died twenty-five years ago, Agent Dunham. He died the day that _man_ stole him from my life. This is simply justice."

"Justice?" she laughs. "This isn't justice, this is a sick vendetta against a world that has done _nothing_ to you! There are innocent people over here — "

"And who is more innocent than a child?" he interrupts.

"You never cared about him," she says, voice taunt. "You don't give a shit about who Peter is — he's only a tool for your twisted war."

"The ends, Agent Dunham, justify the means."

She's had enough of him. Of his poking and prodding and threats and insanity. There's no information worth allowing him to live, nothing they can benefit from taking him into custody. Olivia smiles and readies her trigger finger.

"They sure do."

The gunshot is lost in the whine of the machine as it begins to move. Olivia knows she's close, knows he has to be here _somewhere_. Her eyes scan the area wildly, hoping she's in time to stop this, to be the guardian she's supposed to be.

He's leaning against the barrier wall between them and the machine, a slumped figure covered in blood, and Olivia slides on her knees the last few feet between them. Peter barely reacts, only moans a bit when she gathers his face in her hands. Blood flows freely from his nose and ears, his color deathly pale, and where her breathing's difficult, his is labored.

"Peter," she breaths. He gives her a smile in a fraction of a second, one she knows — the reassuring one, the lie of being alright. A few lights fizzle out overhead, and she's left reading his face in the shadows of burning fires.

"Hey," he whispers.

"We have to get you out of here," she says, looking over her shoulder. There's little movement she can see from here, and wonders if she can carry him on her own. One of his hands grasps hers, the grip weak but _there_, and she looks down at him.

"Hey, I need to know," he starts, and begins to cough, blood running down his chin. She wishes desperately to help but doesn't know what to do. "I need to know where I belong."

All the misery of the last few months comes crashing onto her shoulders, and she hesitates. She has never doubted her love for him, only herself in his eyes, and wants to say the right thing. But she also feels the itch of betrayal between her shoulder blades, the pain of a knife in the back. His blues eyes are piercing as they wait for her answer, and she swallows, knowing that, all along, it's always been the same.

"Here," Olivia answers. "Here, with me."

His eyes slide closed but a smile appears on his face. "Thank you."

She feels his hand go slack, hears a whine in the air, and then,

Nothing.

—

She wakes to a cool darkness. Silence. Stillness.

But her hand feels warmth, and she lets her eyes travel down her arm and up his, and Olivia holds her breath as she waits. Her back aches on the floor, her head spinning.

And then, his eyelids twitch.

* * *

_Edit: Wow! You guys are sweet! I never considered continuing, but your reviews are beginning to wake the muse. I shall be thinking on more! Any suggestions, etc, are most welcome!_


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter the second, all due to popular demand. I will admit - I wasn't sold on the idea until one day, while I was working, the first line of this popped into my head and I was powerless against it (ah, the joy of being a freelancer/self-employed...).. The second "part" came another night, during a bout of insomnia. I actually love it, so thanks for the extra push!

If there's any more, it'll be later; I'm knee-deep in a long season-three-based case!fic and not a fan of posting WIPs. Thanks to Bryn for the beta and Beth for the 1am cheer-leading via AIM.

* * *

_I close my eyes for a while  
__And force from the world a patient smile_

_How can you say that your truth is better than ours?  
__Shoulder to shoulder, now brother, we carry no arms._

- 'I Gave You All,' Mumford & Sons

It sucks that he can't see who's speaking around him.

A hand grips his, the fingers long and soft. He takes it as a lifeline, a stable constant in the cacophony of sounds assaulting his sensitive ears, each one reverberating through his skull at a painful level — he winces and pinches his eyes closed, then opens them as wide as he can, hoping for a difference.

There is none.

The voices keep speaking. A few are directed at him, whispered calls of his name that sound like sinful prayers, others are loud, crashing calls for help, moans, the crackles of flames. The heat on his face is overwhelming, his body covered in sweat under layers of clothing, slick and suffocating as fabric sticks to his body.

The hand is still there.

He feels a mist of breath across his cheek as a voice says, near his ear, "Peter, can you hear me?"

There's the jolt of shock — he is _Peter_ — and his memory begins to fill in, random flashes of light that assault his visionless eyes, images and sounds and smells and _oh God, what have I done?_ Pain and sound and fire and ice and _dear God, please tell me I didn't do it_.

"Peter?"

And he — _Peter_ — knows the voice is Olivia, an angel of light; his mind fills the void left by blindness, paints her in a long dress, lips dripping red with lipstick until he realizes that fantasy is nothing compared to the naked beauty of her in the morning sun, colored by the sheets of his tiny bed.

Instead of words, he gives a grunt. The movement releases something, brings him back into the present in a woosh of too much, and he wishes he could move his arms — _move!_ — and cover his ears with his hands. He feels too much and not enough and when another hand comes to rest on his cheek, he thinks he may just explode from the sparks that light up against his skin.

There are more voices, more shouts close to him, but the burning becomes too much, flames rushing up to consume him, a proper punishment for all he's done.

* * *

There's no video in this case, no eye-witness reports. Olivia goes on what she _thinks_ happened, assumptions and supposition based on a year of chasing this particular demon, of what they discovered and learned and predicted. There was no pinnacle moment, and whoever drew that prophecy on yellowed paper had a perspective no one else can touch.

She walks from the hanger in slow-motion, eyes darting around to absorb all the chaos outside. Fires still burn, charring pieces of metal lying on the ground, shrapnel created by the first series of explosions. Above, the stars are obscured by dark clouds rising from what remains below, and she has to look far off to see even a glimmer of something.

Her bones hurt. They grind together as she crosses the open space between the hanger's shell and a large tent put up while she was inside, flaps strapped open as medics from the base flood in to tend to the wounded. Only now does it look like a war.

Inside, the air is cool against her sweating skin.

Olivia runs a hand over her head, smoothing down escaping wisps of blond hair and searches out the one she's looking for. She picks her way through the crowd, their faces as weary as hers, recognition sparked in a few. But most are exhausted. Tired. Burned and bruised.

And when she reaches the back, her ears begin to ring in the absence of sound.

Walter is on a cot, his leg being tended to by a pair of medics, Nina close by, overseeing his well-being. She grips his hand in her own mechanical replacement, and the irony of it hits Olivia as solidly as a wall - _how'd she miss it before?_ They speak in hushed tones, whispered secrets between long-time friends, Walter occasionally casting a glance over his shoulder, worry etched in his aged features.

"Olivia," Nina says, a breath of relief, of finality, inevitability.

How far they've come, in three short years. Olivia waves, her hand aching and red, but doesn't stop. Nina goes back to her quiet tones as one of the medics begins to speak.

And then there's Peter.

He's awake and alone, eyes on his hands with a shifted focus she finds tightens her chest. Prophecies_ be damned_, she thinks, _we're taking charge this time_. She sits on the side of the bed and takes his hands in hers and squeezes them tight, runs her fingers down his, wonders how much they've done she'll never know about. He doesn't react, doesn't turn his head or give her a smile or yell or shout or make a joke. Doesn't move his head or squeeze her fingers or whisper sweet nothings in her ear, breath hot against her cheek.

"Hey," she tries. Her voice is husky and burnt, just like everything else, and she finds it hard to swallow.

His inactivity pisses her off - can't he see what has happened? Doesn't he have anything to say? They're finished - done. The war is over, the other side gone, fathers reduced and alternates replaced. There's no more pattern or preparations, just Olivia and Peter in a tent on a military base, left to pick up what's left of their lives and _go on_.

"You gonna say something?" she asks, and finds a nervous laugh bubbles up to the surface. "Cause I've gotta tell you, you're beginning to scare me."

This gets a huff. A grunt of indignation. Peter raises his eyes but they don't see anything - they're as red as flames from burst capillaries and tired and she finds a pocket of sadness deep in her chest when she realizes his long eyelashes have been singed.

"I should," he tells her. His words are hushed, and she has to lean in to hear him. His skin radiates heat, as if he's become a flame himself, a fire that will burn itself out.

Olivia shakes her head. "What are you talking about?"

"I just destroyed an entire universe, Olivia. What could I possibly do that's _worse_?"

"You didn't have a choice!" she rationalizes. "It was us or them - you _know_ that."

He closes his eyes and takes back one of his hands to rub his face. "All those _people_," he mutters, and Olivia's heart begins to crack, a fatal fissure.

"Peter..."

"All those people, _innocent people_, and for what?" he begins, voice rising. Beside them, Nina and Walter have fallen silent. The world is theirs, and they stand on a stage for all to see. "For me? What the hell does _that_ mean? How am I supposed to be okay with all of this? Tell me," he says, voice cracking as his hands fist themselves on the front of her shirt - he's _begging_, tears falling, now. "Tell me, Olivia, please. Because I have no fucking clue anymore."

She can almost see the edge in his eyes, and knows there's precious time before those depths are plunged. Hands over his, she takes a breath and gives an honest answer.

"You can look at it one of two ways: you're a hero, or a monster. Make a choice, Peter. But know that you did what was _right_."

The world holds its breath - the wind dies down as flames begin to go out, water filling the air as hoses begin to extinguish what's left of the wreckage outside. Olivia holds his hands tight, refusing to let go even as his relax in her grip, her eyes steady on him and she hopes he can feel every ounce of this because she's giving it all to him.

Heart thudding painfully in her chest, she can feel panic begin to rise - _I just found you!_ - vision dimming at the edges. This is the end. Not the war or experiments or cases or machine. This. Right here. She gives it her all, throws reason out the window, and leans forward to place a gentle kiss on his chapped, cracked lips.

They smile under hers.

"Well, sweetheart," he mummers, "you make a convincing argument."


End file.
